To Avenge Her Highland Warrior

by Samantha Holt

  To Avenge Her Highland Warrior

  Samantha Holt

  Copyright 2014 ©Samantha Holt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Excerpt

  Logan clenched his jaw and the roar of the storm sounded closer. He had to leave yet his feet refused to move. Why stay? Why torture himself further? His heart pounded against his chest. In the next flash, he was close once more. Within touching distance. He saw her features more clearly now. The distress in her eyes, the golden strands of hair curling around her pointed chin. The fan of her lashes lowered and lifted in one slow sweep until her gaze locked onto his.

  “Logan,” she whispered, voice tremulous, but he did not know if that was a plea for him to leave or come closer.

  “Logan,” she tried again.

  The shaky quality of her voice pulled at his gut. His gaze traced the curl that flowed over one shoulder and down, caressing her gentle curves like a lover—like he once had apparently. His palms tingled with the need to feel the soft give of her flesh beneath him.

  The next flash highlighted her trembling form. The fragile hollow of her neck fluttered with her pulse and his mouth grew dry with the need to press his lips to it.

  Damn her. Like a siren, she lured him in.

  He almost backed away. How long they had been standing like that he knew not. It may have been moments—a mere few flashes of lightening—but the thickening of the air between them seemed to slow time.

  The tremble of her lips gripped his heart, squeezed it hard and painfully. An aggravating need to take care of her ate into him, softened him to her.

  Logan closed the gap. The next rumble lined up with him gripping her upper arms and pushing her back against the wall. She gasped, the sound clear to him even as the skies crashed about them. Hot anger mingled with need. It burned through him and set his nerve endings alight. How dare she have such a hold over him, how dare she make him want her?

  Soft, delicate breasts pressed against him. Slim thighs quaked against his. With a hiss of breath, he lowered his mouth to hers as she stared up at him. Before his lips met hers, her eyes flashed with a plea, but was she begging him to kiss her or leave her be? He couldn’t decide what he wanted either, but she left him with little choice.

  The first touch made him wonder if he had not indeed been struck by lightning. Frissons shot through him, curled into his blood and fired his fury and lust. Lorna released a tiny sound and he pressed his lips hard to hers this time. She whimpered. Her lips felt hot beneath his. Her taste threatened to drown him.

  Satisfaction settled in his gut when she arched into him. He kept hold of her arms, allowing little movement but that up thrust of breasts and hips into him made him hiss and press harder. He coaxed her lips apart, and she gasped when he invaded the heated recesses of her mouth. Logan kissed her deeply, with little apology. He needed this, needed her.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  A dribble of cold water trailed down Lorna’s spine and she shuddered. Wrinkling her nose, she fought to ignore the odour of damp rock and death. The metallic scent might have had more to do with the iron currently clamped around her wrists but its similarity to the smell of blood wasn’t lost on her.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against the hard rock. How many days had she been down here? Two? Three? More? When this had been her castle, the lower donjon had never been used. How many people had Laird Gillean held down here since she’d escaped his clutches after he tried to kill her? How many people had died down here? Knowing the man who was once a brother by marriage—many.

  Would she be one? Lorna kicked a rat as it scurried over her foot and cringed when it squeaked. The men-at-arms who had captured her had said Gillean would not return for a sennight. Hopefully that would give her time to escape before his homecoming. Though from the way she was shackled and dumped in the almost pitch black room, it seemed unlikely anyone would give her any respite from her confines. Kilcree had changed much since she had been lady of the keep.

  The groan of hinges rattled her head, and she squinted into the darkness as a flash of daylight dribbled down the stairs. Hope burst in her chest but vanished with the sunlight as the door slammed shut. Footsteps sounded and she forced herself to breathe slowly while her heart echoed each thud.

  Those footsteps came to a stop a few paces from her. In the gloom, she could make out the vaguest outline. A man. Tall, wide-shouldered. The smell of soap broke the stifling air. Lorna straightened as best as she could with her hands bound in front of her by the heavy, rusting iron. Her wrists panged in protest. No doubt the skin would be raw underneath the metal.

  “Why are ye here?”

  His voice made her jump. Rough and low—almost a growl—it grated her senses.

  She raised her chin and peered at the outline of his head. “Why are ye holding me? I havenae done anything wrong.”

  The man let out a gruff laugh. “Ye were found sneaking around the laird’s chambers.”

  “I wasnae sneaking. And I hardly think visiting the castle which used to be my home is punishable by imprisonment.” She perfected her most authoritative voice—one that had worked for many years on the men under her command. “Ye know I am Lady Lorna, do ye not?”

  “I do.”

  “Then release me.”

  He crouched, startling her. Why give up an imposing stance? She never would have done so had the roles been reversed, but knowing he was that bit closer sent a shiver through her. Who was this man? She’d known most of Gillean’s men. He had to be new. Since Gillean’s men had killed Logan, Kilcree had no one in command. A mercenary perhaps. A grizzled, scarred image of a man sprang to mind.

  “I cannae release ye. Ye were trespassing where ye were no’ welcome. The laird shall want to deal with ye when he returns.”

  “The laird shall likely kill me, but I suppose ye care not.”

  The silence that hung between them made her heart thud. Something about his voice teased her memories but she would remember such a voice, surely? His breaths whispered harshly in the air, as if he struggled to draw them in.

  “I suppose ye dinnae care that ye work for an ungodly man,” she continued. Would it even be possible to guilt this stranger into releasing her?

  “God has no place in these walls.” She heard his smirk.

  “When they were my walls, He did.”

  “Much has changed this past year, Lady Lorna. Ye were much mistaken coming here. Ye should have stayed at Glencolum. Kilcree is no place for a lady.”

  Lorna narrowed her eyes into the darkness. “Ye seem to know much about me.”

  “Many know of ye, my lady. Yer men were responsible for killing many of Gillean’s. Th
e laird has kept a close eye on ye since.”

  She snorted. And she had been doing the same to him. Watching and waiting for the moment to strike. Her son was old enough to be left with the nursemaid, and Gillean had scaled down his defences when the clan at Glencolum showed no signs of retaliation for attempting to kill one of their kin and her brother’s wife. Foolishly, she’d thought it would be easy enough to slip into Kilcree and kill Gillean in his sleep. Lorna clenched a hand around the iron holding her captive.

  She would have saved Scotland from the plotting of Gillean. She did not know what he had planned, but he had used the past year to garner more land and loyalty. It left her in no doubt he would eventually strike Glencolum and the rest of her kin. The man she had once called brother was as ambitious as he was deadly.

  But more importantly she would have avenged Logan’s death—her one time lover.

  And the man she loved. She gulped and fought the memories of how she’d treated him. If she hadn’t constantly refused him, would things have been different? Would he still be alive today? She had said goodbye to many men—her father, her first husband—but she grieved little for any of them. Her marriage had been by arrangement and she barely knew her father. Logan’s death, however, had left an ache in her heart that would never be filled. Even her darling son only eased it somewhat.

  Revenge. That would make her whole again.

  “Ye have nothing to say, my lady?” the man pressed.

  “Not to ye,” she spat.

  Whoever this man was had clearly taken on the role of her imprisoner and he would feel the full force of her hate. She consoled herself that her brother, Finn, would seek revenge for her should anything happen. Once he got over his anger, that was. She dreaded to think how furious he would be when he found out she’d put her son, Ewan, in the care of the nursemaid and snuck away on such a rash mission.

  But Gillean should have been here. Rumour was, he was holed up in Kilcree, preparing for something. He spent his time between his two castles but he should have been here. And she should have had her revenge. Lorna allowed herself a bitter smile and shuddered as a howl of wind swirled through the slit of a window and wrapped her in an icy blanket.

  “Cold?”

  That smirk lingered in his tone again. Could he see her? She glanced up at the sliver of light and concluded it must highlight her. Her imprisoner was at another advantage. He saw her while she could barely make out his stance. Still, she would not show her despair. While she remained in the walls of Kilcree, her mission was not a complete failure. Gillean had tried to kill her once before but the stakes had been high. A rich bride—now Finn’s wife—had been the prize, but surely Gillean would not risk the wrath of Glencolum for the satisfaction of spilling her blood.

  She prayed not. Lorna had little intention of involving her brother. For many years she had looked after herself and survived a man almost as evil as Gillean—her husband. She did not need Finn’s aid and, with his first child on the way, she wanted it even less. Finn deserved some happiness in his life.

  Twisting her wrists in a bid to lessen the increasing ache, she fixed her gaze on the outline of his head. “Nay, I am no’ cold.” She tensed to fight another oncoming shudder.

  In truth, until this man had entered the room, the temperature had been far from her mind. Was it him or the gusts of wind swirling through the dark, dank prison causing her body to feel as though she had been submerged into icy waters? Her thin woollen gown did little to warm her, and the men who had caught her in Gillean’s room had taken away her mantle—an act of cruelty she suspected. Anyone working for Gillean would have little compassion.

  A warm, rough fingertip swept across the back of her hand and she squeaked while her pulse kicked. She hadn’t even seen him move. The tingles in her arm increased but they didn’t feel as though they were caused by cold—or by the constriction of the iron on her wrists. It had to be fear that caused it. Why else would this mysterious man have such an effect?

  “Ye are cold,” he stated, wry amusement tingeing his gruff voice as he stood.

  Damp rushes squelched under his boots when he took a step back—the same rushes that soaked through her skirts.

  Lorna thrust her chin higher, refusing to be a source of enjoyment for him. What sort of man took pleasure in imprisoning a woman in such squalid surroundings? Yet part of her longed for him to stay—a thought she dearly wished to quash. She had already spent two days alone in the dark confines. The thought of being left once more with no clue as to her fate made her chest constrict.

  “What will ye do with me?” she asked, desperate to prolong their interaction. She needed some hint of what was to happen.

  “That isnae up to me. Ye can wait until Gillean returns.”

  He moved and looked to be folding his arms. A prickle on her skin told her he was studying her, but why? If he truly intended to leave her until Gillean returned, he had no need to be speaking with her.

  “Do ye like what ye see, mercenary?” Why was she baiting him?

  He released a low, raw chuckle. “Mercenary? Is that what ye think I am?”

  “A man who offers up his honour to the highest bidder? Aye, I think yer a mercenary. Ye clearly cannae make decisions for yerself.”

  A hand clamped around her arm like a hot vice and the hiss of his breath washed over her face. She cried out involuntarily and clamped her mouth shut while he dragged her to her feet. She near hung from his grip, her body stretched so she had to come onto her tiptoes. The chains that attached the irons to the ground clanged and squeaked in protest.

  “Let me assure ye, Lady Lorna,” her captor hissed, “that no man commands me, laird or no’. And no woman commands me either. Ye may think ye are capable of bringing a man to his knees, but ye are mistaken.”

  Her chin trembled. He had proved her right. This man was nothing but a mercenary with no honour or morals. Such men cared little whether you were a woman or an innocent. In all likelihood, she would not escape him or sway him in any way. Would she see her son again—the child who bore such resemblance to his father, it made her heart ache every time she looked upon him?

  Several moments passed. The mercenary’s harsh breaths and her own seemed to grow louder. The heat of his palm continued to burn its way through the sleeve of her gown. Chances were he would leave a bruise. It wouldn’t be the first time a man had marked her, but she had hoped when her first husband had died it was to be the last. But men struck out. Gillean had reminded her of that and now this man.

  The grip on her arm softened, just enough to allow her to relax. Lorna again questioned how she had become so careless. Years running a keep had taught her to be careful. She had become adept at negotiating and reading a situation. Her need for revenge had clouded her judgement and Ewan would likely pay for her carelessness. Would her son grow up hating her for putting herself in such a situation and leaving him motherless?

  Finally the steely grip released and the man stood back once more. She failed to suppress a relieved sob. His responding exhale of breath surprised her. It sounded almost as if her moment of distress had affected him. Or perhaps she was simply looking for salvation where there was none.

  “Ye shall remain until Laird Gillean returns,” he said decisively, his voice splitting the silence.

  With that, he turned and stepped out of the door. It swung shut heavily, causing drips of water to shake from the walls and splatter on her chilled body.

  Lorna dropped to the ground and drew her knees up as tremors wracked her. Tears singed her eyes and she closed them, refusing to give in. The need to avenge Logan’s death had blinded her and now those who loved her would pay for her mistake.

  Filling her lungs, she curled her hands. Nay, they would not. She would not die here at the hands of a mercenary or Laird Gillean. She would kill Gillean somehow and return to Ewan. She would not have him growing up with the knowledge that the man who killed his father still lived.

  Chapter Two

  Lo
gan paused outside the door and heard the rattle of chains as Lorna dropped to the ground. He put a hand to his throat and touched the raised welt. It felt tight. Not uncommon. But the churning in his gut was.

  She was beautiful. Cold, wet, dirty and pale, her beauty shone under the meagre light of the donjon window. He shook his head and stomped up the stairs into the Great Hall. Something struck him as familiar about her, but he supposed he might have met her whilst in the service of Gillean. He put a hand to his head and paused in the stairwell. Why could he not remember? Why had none of his memories returned yet? The laird had told him of his life before he awoke in the very same donjon with no recollection as to his life before that moment, and it had been eventless up until the battle of Kilcree.

  He was a peasant boy, it seemed, who had risen through the ranks. After Gillean had informed him he had gone into a fit after nearly dying at the hands of Lorna’s men and they had confined him for his own safety, Logan had been determined to prove himself to the laird. Thankfully he still had his wits about him and had managed to become indispensible to the laird.

  He put a hand to the cold stone. Why she had returned, he couldn’t fathom. To get back her dowry probably. When Lorna had been forced from her home, she had left behind everything. But it mattered little to him. Once Gillean returned from the coast with the Norse in tow, it would be up to the laird what happened to the woman.

  Logan paused in front of the table at the rear of the hall and snatched a goblet of wine. He drained it and studied the hall. The elaborate tapestry on one wall and intricate carving of the wooden stairs and banister that spanned the floor above did nothing to warm the place. A cold silence always hung in the air, even as servants scurried to clear away the morning meal. Gillean tolerated little joviality from his household and demanded nothing but hard work.

  Logan smirked. That was fine by him. Hard work, he could do and laughter had no place in his life. Being Gillean’s chieftain reaped plenty of rewards and he was far from a simple peasant boy now.